


Proposal

by Tufaah



Category: Crash Bandicoot (Video Games)
Genre: Character building, Gen, Swearing, nefarious tropy is smug and an asshole, nefarious tropy wants to be a god, no intimate relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:47:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28130373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tufaah/pseuds/Tufaah
Summary: N. Tropy wants an assistant that matches his own expertise and personality. But he has underestimated what his potential assistant truly thinks of him and his creations.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Proposal

The lab is mostly silent, with only the rhythmic sound of near-constant typing filling the air. The lab is illuminated in the rich, blue glow of a massive supercomputer’s screen, that offers line after line of code with every tap of the rhythmic keyboard. N. Tropy briefly considers turning around and coming back once the sun has risen. It is 3:28 in the morning, and he is well aware that only he and N. Code are the only two souls in the castle still awake. Nobody would know if he bit his pride and decided against having this conversation at this exact moment. Well, except for himself. And he knows himself to be the harshest of judges. 

N. Tropy makes his way up through the row of supercomputer columns that tower over even him. He briefly recalls the day they were brought into the castle, carried in by muscular mutants as Code encouraged and followed after them. At the time, he pondered how heavy the computers really were, but as they tower over his tall, slim form, he fears how hard they could fall. At the end of the small corridor of computers sits the individual he is here to see: N. Code. Nour Code. Her hands are still rapidly typing as he approaches, and she is bathed in blue light, eyes half-lidded as they dutifully follow the lines of code as they appear across the screen. The click of each key in a smooth, consistent fashion reminds him of the ticking of a clock: constant and rhythmic. He wonders if the click of the keys is soothing to her, and if a loss of the rhythm upsets her as much as it upsets him. She hasn’t ceased or altered the rhythm yet, and the speed of each key clicking appears to be set. If she slowed or sped up her frequency, it could throw her off. Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Approaching, he realizes that she is without her lab coat, and her shoulders lack the shoulder pads that he is so used to seeing on her. Seeing her without the garment is not typical, and for a moment, he feels the need to look away, as if she is indecent. But her orange shirt is completely buttoned, and the sleeves are cuffed where they meet her metal hands, with only a small portion of her wrist visible. Her hijab is slightly askew, not as neatly tied as it was when he’d seen her earlier that day, but it disappears in the collar of her shirt, and he notes that she is, what she would consider, decent to accept visitors. 

He takes a brief moment to glance at a nearby table and realizes that that is where her coat has gone. Unceremoniously draped on the back of the table’s chair, her lab coat’s arms sway slightly. A small block of multicolor sticky notes sits on the table’s corner. A record player sits silently with a record still in place. A stack of vinyl’s sit beside it, seemingly forgotten once the last song on Side B played out, and Code had found her zone to continue typing. He briefly wonders what she had been listening to when the last song faded out and the player’s arm had fallen to the side, but he already knows it was something loud and unpleasant to his ears. Unpleasant noise and loud music were suited to her tastes, and Tropy never understood how she enjoyed it. He heard one of her favorite records before, and quickly decided that was one of many things they would never see eye-to-eye on.

For a moment, N. Tropy thinks she hasn’t heard him arrive, and he believes there still may be a chance to turn around and leave. Just return in the morning or have this conversation over coffee. She may be more receptive over coffee. But as this thought enters his mind, she makes his presence known.

“What can I do for you, doctor? You should be sleeping. It’s almost 4 am,” Code mutters, her eyes still steadily following her coding as she types. 

Of course, its nowhere near 4 am. Its only just turned 3:30 exactly, and N. Tropy almost corrects her. But he knows this will do nothing but hurt his chances in making this conversation pan out. He’d only be hurting his chances before even laying out his proposal. He swallows his pride, and with it goes his urge to correct her. Of course, the urge always wins in these cases, and that urge crawls back up his throat with pride riding on its back.

“Its actually 3:30, precisely,” N. Tropy states, and the feeling of relief and pride at the correction combines with a blood-chilling sense of “I think I just fucked this up”. Code continues typing, uninterrupted, and Tropy relaxes slightly, taking this as a sign she hasn’t taken offense.

“Huh, how interesting…” Code mutters, eyes still trained on each letter, number, and symbol as they appear across her screen. “You haven’t answered my question.”

Tropy rests a hand on his chest as a respectful gesture, as if she was even looking at him. He is briefly panicked to realize he can’t feel the rhythmic ticking of his armor beneath his hand, and quickly reminds himself that it is safely in his lab. He gives himself two taps on the chest, following the pace of the clock ticking he has memorized by heart. He quickly recomposes himself, standing tall and raising his shoulders as if to make himself more stoic. The motion is lost on Code.

“I only wanted to inform you that I find your work particularly marvelous. Just look at how dedicated you are at your work! You must have been working all night,” N. Tropy lavishes her with compliments, and Code doesn’t even glance up. She lets out a slight hum, a consolation for a “thank you” at the compliments. This woman isn’t as easily won as others can be. She already knows her work is good, and she doesn’t require niceties. She surprises Tropy by suddenly clearing her throat, blinking a few times as she fixes her voice.

“I know,” she states, voice now much clearer than before. She doesn’t play coy or attempt to downplay her capabilities. No humbling of herself. She is cold and blunt. She is completely aware that what she offers in terms of her programming and coding abilities is top tier. She was once best in the business, and truly still is. And she won’t pretend like she isn’t.

It’s exactly what Tropy looks for in an assistant. 

Tropy offers a smirk, doing his best to ooze confidence. Code never notices. He is by no means a particularly non-confident man, but making himself more visibly confident never hurts. He takes a step forward, resting a hand on the back of her chair. She doesn’t respond well to intimate contact, or what she considers intimate contact, and Tropy knows well not to push the boundary that could piss her off. 

He recalls the day he met her soon after her employment under Dr. Cortex. He had gone in for a handshake, and she simply stared at his hand like an unpleasant thing. And Dr. Cortex had, with a smugness that made Tropy absolutely seethe with disgust, taught him how to greet Code with a hand-on-chest bow. Code had responded well to the bow, doing the same and thanking Dr. Cortex for being so receptive to her form of greeting. Of course, Tropy had picked up on it quickly, but the shame of Dr. Cortex being right while he was wrong made his skin prickle.

And now, with his hand on the back of her chair, Tropy ensures not to come into contact with her. He takes a moment to assure himself that the back of the chair is solid, with no risk of touching her. Invading her space could nullify this entire visit. He leans in, leveling his head with hers, and watching the letters and symbols appear on the screen at the same rhythm as before. He hasn’t made her uncomfortable. Usually, affecting someone’s comfort isn’t an issue that bothers him, but in this act of attempting a proposal, he needs to make sure she is comfortable. If she feels intimidated or annoyed by him, she will have no issue with sending him on his way.

“Does Dr. Cortex respect your work as he should?” Tropy suddenly questions, turning his head slightly to face Code. Her face is still bathed in blue light, and the atmosphere almost gives her his own complexion. Her hands suddenly cease typing, and with that, the lines of code come to a standstill. She blinks slightly, turning her head so that she is facing Tropy. Her eyes are tinted red from the strain of staring at the screen for so long, and her jaw is clenched in what she probably thinks looks relaxed. But she looks invariably, and completely, annoyed. Her blue-bathed skin, striking yellow eyes, and clenched jaw reminds Tropy of himself in a way, and perhaps, in another timeline or dimension, it would be like looking in a mirror.

He raises an eyebrow, awaiting a reply. “Does he?” He glances up to her screen, line after line presented in a format he couldn’t possibly begin to understand. All he knows is that these lines make machines work, and work well. “It’s a shame if he doesn’t,”.  
“I’m sure he does,” Code retorts, and Tropy believes it is too quickly, giving away her insecurity. She knows her work is good and doesn’t need assurance that it is. But having it be overlooked or simplified by her employer does upset her. Tropy knows it does. It has to.

“Having your work looked down on and scrutinized by those that don’t understand it is so immensely demeaning. You don’t deserve that,” Tropy raises an eyebrow and shakes his head, as if to silently chastise Dr. Cortex for not “getting it”. Code’s jaw softens, and she stares down at her keyboard, eyes flitting across the keys as she sets her hands in position to continue typing but doesn’t proceed. Her insecurity seems to have been brought forward and is now basking in the same blue light that illuminates the room. 

“Don’t you miss having your work seen for what it is? Having it truly recognized?” Tropy’s voice raises slightly, excitedly trying to open her eyes to a new purpose. “You shouldn’t be working on little robots that some fleabag will destroy! Dr. Cortex doesn’t even realize all the work that goes into those machines! He doesn’t see this!” He gestures up at the lines of code across the screen, his robotic limb almost noiselessly ticking as silence fills the room. Code’s eyes are locked on the lines of text, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, as if she is having an epiphany of her purpose. 

“He doesn’t understand all the hard work you put into your creations! All these late nights! All the ridiculous deadlines! The sarcastic voicemails and emails he sends you! All the effort you put in to helping him destroy that flea-bitten beast he’s created! As if this hard work all just happens overnight,” he shakes his head, watching Code blink in shock. She suddenly rests her head in one of her cybernetic hands, massaging her forehead with her fingers. For a moment, her eyes rest, eyebrows knitted together as if pained. Tropy gives her a moment to rest, watching her fall back against her chair, slouched down and letting her eyes relax from the bright light of the screen. An unfinished line of code stares down at both of them, and Tropy smirks at the woman.

“Dr. Cortex doesn’t deserve your genius. He doesn’t appreciate your driven work ethic. And with that, I would like to ask something of you,” he rests a hand on his chest as an endearing gesture, head slightly bowed towards her. “Would you do me the honors of becoming my assistant?”

“Dr. Tropy…” Code begins, her accent peeking through her tired voice. The “p” becomes a “b”, and his name is unofficially referred to as “Tro-bee”. He doesn’t mind, and actually quite likes it. She lets out a sigh, and massages her temples with her robotic fingers, the energy spirals on her fingertips illuminating her skin in yellow-orange light. She takes a moment to breathe and steady herself, and Tropy is certain she will thank him for helping her see the light. 

He can already see it himself, the two of them working together to take over the world, with no yellow moron standing in their way. With his genius of time travel and inter-dimensional knowledge, they would be unstoppable. If N. Trance would join them, they could be the masters of the universe. Or rather, he would be the master of the universe, and they would be his loyal assistants. There cannot be more than one master of the universe after all, at least, not in his universe. He would be its ultimate, and they could argue over who would be the penultimate. 

A God and his minions. Or assistants. Demi-gods? Whatever.

Code finally opens her eyes, yet again half-lidded, as if she is too exhausted to keep her eyes fully open. She lets out another sigh, this one smoother and much calmer, as though she’s come to a decision within herself.

“Dr. Tropy… How much of an idiot do you take me for?”

… What?

Tropy is taken aback, letting himself stand fully again, shoulders pulled back to add to his stoicism. A hand comes to rest at his chest, yet again taking in the lack of ticking. He stammers to reply, a soft wheeze of air coming from his throat before being able to actually speak.

“I… I beg your pardon?” he stammers, his words coming out more of an exclamation that a question. And he can’t hide his perspiration as it jumps out of his pores in a sudden clamminess. 

“Do you think I’m stupid, doctor? Do you think I am a complete and total idiot?” Code turns her chair to face him, taking a leg and tossing it over the other. Her hands come together, fingers interlocking as she glares up at him. Her glasses rest on the bridge of her nose, and Tropy silently wonders if he’s close enough for her to see him without blur. He self-consciously takes a step back, and she makes no motion to adjust her glasses. She doesn’t care if he’s clearly visible or not, and Tropy can’t help but find that, oddly, immensely intimidating. 

“What makes you think I do all of this work to help Dr. Cortex kill some dog in jorts? What makes you think I work day and night for the recognition from some “evil genius” that has never experienced success in his scientific career? And what makes you think I need that recognition from you?”

Code’s eyes narrow, and Tropy isn’t certain she’s doing it out of anger or to see him better. Regardless, the motion leaves him feeling quite cold. Tropy can’t even reply before Code begins her tirade again. 

“I don’t work here because I approve of villainous behaviors, or because I’m looking to engage in other evil behaviors. And I’m certainly not looking to boost the overall misery in this world. I work here because it’s the only place I can at the moment.”   
Her voice is blunt and hard, and for a moment, Tropy feels as though he’s being chastised by a parent. He almost feels the urge to hang his head in shame and apologize for even approaching Code with an employment proposal, but he instead swallows and brings his shoulders back up, as if that would intimidate her. 

“Well, pardon me, doctor, but I don’t feel that I’ve stepped out of line. In fact, I feel that my offer is quite-“.

“Shut. Up.” Code states, her jaw coming back to its tense state. She suddenly lifts herself from her chair, coming to face Tropy almost chest-to-chest. She is significantly shorter than him, though not as short as the likes of Cortex, but the closeness is very foreign coming from N. Code. She stares up at him, and he, down at her, and their noses practically touch. Her eyes are hard, and her eyebrows are knitted into an angry glare.

“You come to me at 4 in the morning, interrupting my work, to try and fool me into working for you. You want to stand here and try to sweet-talk me into working with you so that you can use me as a pawn in your scheme for world domination? You think I’ll stand here and let you talk me into harming this planet? This dimension? This universe? You really think I’m stupid, then. I don’t work for Dr. Cortex because he’s a good leader, or an intelligent scientist, or a capable person. I work for him because you know, and I know, that he will never achieve world domination. The man can’t even kill a dog in jorts. He has no chance of taking over the planet. He barely has a chance of ordering takeout over the phone without getting overwhelmed. He poses no real threat to this planet and its people. And you may not see it this way, but I respect that about him. But you-”.

She presses a hard, metal finger into Tropy’s chest, and he silently notes that there will likely be a bruise there the next day. 

“You. I trust that you could do quite a bit of damage, especially if I help with your Time Twister. That machine is one of the most high-tech, incredible pieces of machinery I have seen in my entire life. And I know it could destroy everything in the blink of an eye. And I cannot, in good faith, help you do that. Understood?”  
…

“It’s 3:47, actually…” Tropy mumbles, swallowing hard, and close enough so that he is certain Code has heard it. He feels his knees buckle as Code’s eyebrows suddenly unknit themselves, and her eyes soften. She takes a step back, removing her finger from his chest, and giving them both space to breathe.

“I am not against working with you, doctor. In fact, I’d love to. I’d love to help you improve your machines, and improve their programming to prevent any abnormalities,” she states, shaking her head as she moves back to her computer, saving her work-in-progress coding, and beginning to shut down the program. Tropy watches as she moves the file into a folder of other work-in-progress coding chunks, all under names that only seem to make sense to her.

“I want, more than anything, to see you as a coworker or colleague. A partner. Maybe even a friend. But I just can’t. You know?” She ensures that everything is saved and neatly stored in their appropriate folders. She wanders over to the table that holds her record player, peeling a sticky note from the block of multicolor notes, and jots down a few notes to herself before sticking it to her computer screen.

“You’re a very intelligent man, Dr. Tropy. I would love to work on projects with you. Have coffee and tea together. Maybe even get to know each other’s pasts. We have a shared language that nobody else here speaks, and that could be such an intimate bonding point for us. I would like to know you as a brother, Insha’Allah,” she sighs, powering down her computer. The columns of the supercomputer behind them quickly power down, the whirring they produce quickly dying down and fading. As the computer dies and takes the blue tint with it, a backup light source kicks in, filling the room with a very soft yellow light, just bright enough to make the room navigational. And with the more natural light, Code’s green, sickly pallor becomes more obvious. No longer does she remind him of himself. 

The room is no longer bathed in blue, and Tropy allows his eyes to adjust as Code gathers her coat from the nearby chair, draping it over her shoulder just as unceremoniously as it had been before. She sighs again, looking at him in the yellow semi-darkness, eyes almost seeming to glow as she stares at him. They hold a certain sadness that Tropy can’t seem to place, and she shakes her head.

“The difference between you and Dr. Cortex isn’t your intelligence, or your scientific abilities. I can spend time with Dr. Cortex and work with him with no issue, even if he is a frustrating little man. It’s just,” she shakes her head again and lets out a frustrated noise. She slowly walks up through the corridor of supercomputer towers, coming to stand at the door to her lab. 

She rests a hand on the door, glancing back at Tropy to see him still standing by her computer, absolutely dumbfounded, and possibly offended. She stands idly for a moment, metal fingers rhythmically tapping on the door, as if she’s choosing her words carefully. Her eyebrows knit together again as she pushes the door open.

“You’re objectively a bad person. You’re evil. That isn’t a compliment,” she mutters. The door swings open, and she steps out of the lab. Tropy can hear her boots click as she walks down the castle corridor to her room, leaving Tropy all alone in the lab. The door quickly falls back into place with a soft swish. After a few moments in stoic silence, the backup lights fail to detect motion, and cut off, leaving Tropy standing in the middle of the now-black lab. 

The time is now 3:52 am.

Code did recognize his evil genius. She even recognized he was a more adept scientist than the likes of Dr. Cortex. She complimented his work on the Time Twister. And surprisingly, that left his ego with a large, green bruise.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in a very long time and its very obvious! Any feedback is welcome!


End file.
